


Ivory and Ebony

by Kov_SR



Category: Original Work
Genre: And During a Writing Marathon, Classical Music, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Piano, musician - Freeform, pianist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25726696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kov_SR/pseuds/Kov_SR
Summary: The thoughts of a pianist on what it means to be not just a musician, but an artist.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 5





	Ivory and Ebony

With a flourish, the rehearsal ends, the sound sparkling in a way that only a true musician could master. The pianist rolls her fingers over the final notes of ivory and ebony, snatching the magic from the empty auditorium as fast as she had gifted it.

The final note falls gently over the stage, reaching out to an audience that is not there yet, and the pianist hears the phantom cheers of a massive crowd there all for her, screaming for the joy that her piano has brought to them —

— and as soon as the illusion was created from the recesses of her mind, it disappears under a wave of exhaustion. She slouches in her bench a little, feeling the phantom soreness in the bones of her fingers, pain that she used to feel when she overworked her hands as a beginner. The faint flickers of that memory are drowned out by the more present stress as well, by her anxiety of the oncoming performance, her overwhelming _need_ to play it perfectly, to evoke such emotion, to make the piano sparkle so that the audience is moved to tears – because you can call yourself a musician all you like, but you are _never_ an artist until you truly evoke emotion within your audience, no matter what your craft is.

She vaguely recalls her first time playing a solo onstage, the way the ivory and ebony beneath her fingers was the only thing that had felt real to her anxiety-ridden mind. The performance wasn’t as good as it could’ve been – _should’ve_ been, and she remembers kicking herself afterwards for giving into her anxiousness in front of so many people.

But such is the way of a young musician, and like most other gifted and young musicians, she eventually got over her nervousness enough that her fingers stopped trembling every time hundreds of eyes were upon them. With her anxiety gone, she had enough mind in the moment to spare to focus on the true fabric of the proverbial tapestry, the subtleties and storytelling in her own warped mirror that she was reflecting to the audience.

And really, that is what art is, she muses as she glides her fingers over the ivory and ebony once more. Art is a warped mirror, where the artist lays themselves bare in such a way that the audience can see to the very recesses of their souls, but at the same time the audience is not the artist, and thus they see their own version – their own _interpretation_ – reflected back at them instead.

And thus, the artist is all at once vulnerable and armored. It is a strange duality, she thinks, much like the beauty of the ivory and ebony that she caresses beneath her fingertips.


End file.
